The Uninvited
by 911ost at sea
Summary: With John away on a hunt the boys are left to their own devices at Bobby's house for the weekend. With some convincing Dean manages to make Sam entertain the idea that they may be able to lead normal teenage lives after all; have some fun, talk to girls. And it's all going to kick off with the party of a lifetime and an uninvited guest at the door. Pre series.
1. Chapter 1

When they are called into the office Dean grabs him by the elbow and helps him to his feet. Sam sags against him, his whole body threatening to cave in on itself as he shuffles down the hall. John follows a few steps behind, watching with intent.

Next thing Sam knows he's sitting on a plastic covered table, his brother is in the chair in front of him, his father standing off in the corner, arms folded and brow furrowed with what he can only assume is concern of some kind. Sam's eyes shift listlessly and his shoulders slump. Everything feels far away, like he is looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Then there is the incredible, unfathomable weight that presses down on every joint in his body. It is trying to drag him downward into the abyss, he knows it is, but he can do little to ward it off. His mind is sluggish. Making a proper thought involves trudging through sludge and he hardly has the energy to even keep his eyes open right now. He blinks for a long time.

The door clicks open and the doctor steps in, head down in his clipboard as he crosses something off.

"Hello, hello," he says cheerfully, looking up to address the room. "I'm Dr. Chase." He shakes Johns hand firmly. "And you must be…." He checks his notes. "Sam."

Sam's eyes slide open a fraction but he says nothing.

The doctor raises an eyebrow. "Not feeling well today, Sam, are we?"

"It started yesterday morning," Dean says quickly. He's on his feet now, standing next to his brother.

"Actually it was the night before," John corrects. His voice is taunt and gruff. "He wasn't looking good and I think that's when the fever started."

The doctor nods and stoops to regard Sam under the mop of hair that has fallen over his eyes. "Can you tell me how you're feeling, Sam?"

"Hm?" Sam blinks at him. He knows he's been asked a question but he can't process it. The words scramble and fall foreign on his ears.

The doctor frowns and pulls a penlight from his breast pocket. "Let's have a look and see what's going on." With coarse, firm hands, the doctor guides Sam's chin up. His thumb lifts his eyelid and he shines his pen into Sam's bloodshot eye. Immediately Sam recoils, turning away with a groan.

"Looks like miosis in the left eye, both eyes are severely bloodshot. Could be the result of a high fever. Could you open up for me, Sam. I just want to get a read on your temperature."

Sam opens his mouth a crack and the doctor slides a plastic, sterile tasting thermometer under his tongue and places a hand against Sam's forehead. The touch is so cool against his burning skin that he melts into it. His eyes shut and for a second the voices in the room blur into vague mumbling. That's when he hears it, clear as a shot in the dead of night.

_Sam…_

A voice is calling to him, beckoning to him.

_…__Sam…_

Sam feels the weight of his body deepen against the doctors hand. He wants to find the voice that calls to him. There's something familiar about it, something warm and safe and comforting. He longs for it.

_…__Come to me, Sam…_

The doctor pulls his hand away and is just about to read aloud Sam's 104.5 temperature when a gurgled sound bubbles from Sam's throat.

"Shit, he's throwing up," Dean says breathlessly and in a swift motion he grabs the small trashcan by the door and holds it in Sam's lap as a foamy white substance dribbles from his slack jaw into the can. His body hitches, eyes still shut.

"Sam? Sammy open your eyes," Dean says hurriedly. "Dammit, Doc, what's wrong with him?"

The doctor moves quickly, "He's seizing. Lay him on his side, I'll have the nurse call for an ambulance." Together he and Dean lay Sam's jolting body down on his left side, tilting his head forward so that he doesn't choke, all the while John moves with them, eyes fixed and unblinking.

When the ambulance arrives the world swirls into a haze of shouts and motions. Two EMTs speaking loud and fast shuffle about limp Sam as they pack him onto a stretcher, the sheen of sweat on Sam's forehead soaking through the padded gurney almost instantly. Sam's eyes dart behind closed gray lids and he pants heavily. Dean is shouting, following at their heels when John reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder, spinning him around suddenly. His face is urgent and intense. "Dean you go in the ambulance with Sam. I need to make a phone call. You stay with him, you hear me?"

Dean swallows hard into his chest and nods confidently.

"Good. I'll meet you at the hospital as soon as I can." He turns and starts off in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going?" Dean calls.

"Stay with Sam," John orders. He doesn't look back.


	2. Chapter 2

One Week Earlier

Sam wakes to the sound of a screen door swinging shut, followed by the trunk slamming and the start of an engine. He lays with his eyes open listening to his father go. He doesn't move to get up until he hears the truck clunk down the dusty dirt driveway and turn onto the road. Then he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his back, his arms, his toes. On the bed across from him Dean snores so loud and sudden that he jumps about a half inch in his sleep and mumbles something dreamily, one heavy arm drooping down onto the wood floor. Sam watches as his brother smacks his sleep caked lips together and mutters, "Don't be like that, Kelly…" and twists the other way.

Sam rolls his eyes and makes his way across the creaking floor as light as he can, then out into the hall and down the stairs into the kitchen where Bobby is standing over the toaster, popping two slices down into the slots.

"You made breakfast?" Sam yawns and regards the spread of food on the kitchen table, which is clear for the first time in ages. Sam can't even remember a time when it wasn't covered in stacks of ancient books and clutters of newspaper clippings, but today the table is bare apart from a plate of buttered toast and a mess of scrambled eggs that have fallen in crumbles around the bowl where they are overflowing.

Bobby gives him a half smile. "Yeah well, I thought I'd have a go at it anyway. I'm a piss poor cook, but I figured how bad can someone screw up toast and eggs?"

Sam eyes the blackened toast and he knows that he and Bobby are thinking the same thing but they don't say it. Sam seats himself at the table and nibbles at an unburnt corner of toast, nodding at Bobby approvingly. He knows what Bobby is doing, that he's trying to cheer him up after the blow out he had with his father the night before, but the stale bread does little to suppress the feeling of resentment and guilt that rises in his chest like bile. Even now the words burn in his skull like the hot poke of a knife.

_How am I supposed to trust you when you lie to me like this, Sam?_

_Look at me when I'm talking to you_

_You want to be treated like an adult, well start acting like one_

Sam sets down his toast. Suddenly his isn't very hungry. He catches sight of a scrap of paper on the edge of the table where his father's handwriting is scrawled hurriedly.

Dean, take care of the car for me, will ya?

Don't skip school

No girls

Back in a few days

Good old dad. Bobby sees Sam take notice of the note and says, "You know your dad don't mean half the things that come out of his mouth. You don't know how much trouble shooting his mouth used to get us into back in the day." Sam blinks at him. "Point is," He continues, "Don't take what he says to heart. He doesn't hardly ever mean it."

"Yes," Sam says, sitting back, "He does."

Bobby looks like he's going to protest when Dean rushes down the stairs in a flash, "Mornin, Sammy," he says, tussling Sam's hair. "Awesome, breakfast." He reaches past Sam and grabs a handful of toast, popping almost a whole slice into his mouth as he falls hard into the chair beside him. "Thank God, I'm _starving_."


	3. Chapter 3

Sam slides into the passenger side of the Impala, backpack slung over his shoulder. Dean is sitting in the drivers seat, eyes wide and gleaming as he runs his hands repeatedly over the leather steering wheel.

"You going to drive it or take it out on a date?" Sam says.

Dean smirks. "I might do both, Sammy. I might just do both."

"Funny. Could we get a move on? I don't want to be late."

Dean shoots him a serious look and points a finger at him. "Priorities, Sam. Impala first, everything else second."

As they round the corner to pull up to the high school Dean adjusts his sunglasses and cranks up the Led Zeppelin song just a little louder. Dean has always been pretty good at putting on a facade when they went to school but today he is downright giddy. That white toothy grin of his is stretched ear to ear, and why wouldn't it be? Today he drives their father's Impala without John or Bobby to tell him that he's going to fast or braking too hard. Today he is completely and wholly his own. Today is the greatest day of his whole damn life. Sam eyes the keys dangling from the ignition and wonders what it must feel like. Not to drive the impala but to be trusted enough to do so. To be respected.

"You know blue ain't a very attractive color on you, Sammy." Dean says and Sam blinks, his dazed look breaking.

"What?"

"I know you're down about this whole thing with Dad, but come on, man. You know him. He does this. He gets over it. Life moves on."

"Oh. Yeah."

"Yes," Dean says more firmly now. "I'm serious. He'll get over it. You'll get over it. And in the meantime lighten up little, will ya?" He punches Sam in the shoulder, "We're riding up to school in style today, Sammy. You and me. Let's enjoy it, it's not going to last forever."

Sam looks out the window and notices as the heads turn and the eyes widen. A cute blonde girl catches his gaze, their eyes meet and she blushes and looks away. Sam smiles just the slightest bit and tries to consider that Dean might have a point. He might not be able to make their father see his side of things. He may never be able to. But today the hurt of that realization is lessened by the shy pink smile of a pretty girl. It may not last forever, but for now it's enough.

Dean pulls unnecessarily quickly into a parking spot and the Impala complies without hesitation. He comes to a halt in front of a group of football jocks including Derek Holland, the school quarterback, who stumbles back a step when the Impala stops just inches before him. The group falls silent as Derek's face goes from startled to angry in the same fluid motion and he bangs a fist on the hood of the car.

"You better watch where you're going, Winchester!"

Dean cranes his head out the car window. Sam feels his cheeks grow hot. This will not end well. "You better watch where you're punching, Holland."

Derek puffs his chest and takes a dangerous step forward. There is mild chuckling coming from the guys behind him, some out of interest, others with worry. "You better just be happy it wasn't your face on the receiving end of that punch."

"My face has seen things far worse than your fists, Holland, believe you me." Dean lowers his sunglasses and gives Holland a once over. "Come to think of it I've seen puppy dogs scarier than you."

A wave of Ooooo's bounces around Derek's pack and Sam grab's the sleeve of Dean's jacket and tugs hard. "Quit it, Dean. We're supposed to lay low."

Derek's face swells with color, his body almost visibly shaking with rage. "Goddamn you, Winchester, I'm gonna kill you!" And two of his teammates grab him by the shoulders to hold him back, whispering gibberish about _that white trash not being with his time._ His lips are still drawn back into a feral scowl but he backs down, fixes his varsity jacket collar and motions for his crew to follow him. They move away as a single unit of red jackets with white trim.

Dean gets out and leans down close to the hood of the Impala. Running his palm over the surface. "Did that jerk hurt you, baby?"

Sam is shaking his head as he shuts the door. "You really need a hobby."

Dean puts a finger to his lips and sets his cheeks down on the cold black metal. "Shh, don't listen to him, baby. You're all the hobby I need."

Sam rolls his eyes for a record number of times in a single morning, and turns to get to class.


	4. Chapter 4

_What the hell has gotten into you, Sam?_

Sam taps his pencil mindlessly on his blank notebook and looks out the classroom window to the rolling hills below. The football field and the bright orange stands that rise high around it. A gym class is out on the turf, taking turns running laps around the track. Sam watches them with curiosity. The guys have broken off into their own group. They push each other and run circles around the cluster of girls who are jogging at a near stagnant pace. The girls' ponytails swishing over their thin framed shoulders. One girl, the same one from the parking lot earlier, brushes a single hair that has caught between her lips and laughs at something another girl has said. Sam can't hear it but he imagines that laugh is bright and crisp as spring air. He extends his neck just a bit, his eyes trailing after her. She's rounding the corner of the track when she looks back over her shoulder and straight up at him. He recoils in his seat, mortified. But of course she didn't see him staring. There's no way she could see him from across a field and into a second story window. Even though the logic of his reasoning is sound, he has a hard time convincing himself of it's truth. Those piercing blue eyes, sweeping back, looking up, meeting his…

_What do you have to say for yourself, Sam? _

A throat clears and Sam jumps to find Mr. Weatherby standing over his desk, looking down at him over the rim of his glasses with an unamused sternness.

"W—what?"

"Your essay, Sam? Don't have anything to say?"

Sam oggles at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. His mouth is suddenly very dry. "Oh, um. I was just planning out my argument."

Mr. Weatherby raises a unruly caterpillar thick eyebrow. "For your essay on the taxation system of the Ottoman Empire?"

"Yes. Right, well…"

Noticing the shifting eyes of the other students, Mr. Weatherby drops his voice. "Just stop by my desk after class, would you, Sam?"

Sam nods, slumping down into his shoulders as he hurriedly tries to conjure up something noteworthy to say about the fucking taxation system of the Ottoman Empire with little avail.

With half a page worth of essay and the classroom cleared out, Sam approaches Mr. Weatherby's desk. Mr. Weatherby takes the paper from him, gives it a quick glance, and slides it to the side, folding his hands in front of him. "Is everything…okay, Sam?"

"Yes, everything's fine," Sam says just a little too quickly.

"I know you must still be adjusting to things here, Sam. But, and I don't think it should come as much of a surprise to you, but you're the brightest student in class. You're always so attentive. You just don't seem yourself today."

Sam thumbs the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. He could tell Mr. Weatherby that he isn't himself today. That he's disappointed his father for the umpteenth time. That while everyone else his age is trying to make sports teams and going to movies on Friday nights he has to do salt and burn training with his uncle Bobby. He could tell him that last year he broke his leg fighting a Wendigo with his dad and how he had to tell everyone that he fell down the stairs. He could tell him how he longs to ask the pretty blonde girl to the homecoming dance at the end of the month, but how he knows he won't be here long enough to attend it anyway. He could tell him that he's tired. That he is so very, very tired. But instead he says none of this. Instead he simply feigns a smile and says, "I'm fine. Really."

Mr. Weatherby makes a contemplative sound in the back of his throat and shifts his jaw, unconvinced. But he knows better than to pry. "Well if you ever need to talk about anything, just let me know."

"Will do," Sam says, knowing full well that he won't.

In the hallway Sam walks through the crowd in a fog. Kids his age chatter afternoon gossip at each other's lockers and talk sports and who's older cousin was going to sneak them beer that weekend. Sam feels utterly disconnected. He can't name a single one of his classmates let alone consider himself to be one of them. He had taught himself long ago to give up on trying to fit in. The world of blissful ignorance of the supernatural was not one that he was privileged enough to live in and that was that. Still, since he'd started high school, the sting of this felt sharper than ever. Everyone around him was gearing up for the bright future that lay ahead. A world of unknown possibility. A world Sam's father was never going to allow him to know. He was a hunter. He always would be a hunter. It didn't matter how often they argued over it. When his father snapped on the overhead light in the dead of night, waking him and Dean, telling them that it was time to go, he went. But these days his feet feel leaden with each step in line that he follows.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammysammy…" Dean sweeps in from around the hallway corner and punches Sam in the shoulder cheerily. "Man I got news for you."

"You finally learned how to spell assassinate without laughing?"

"Funny but no," He circles Sam excitedly, punching faster at his scrawny arms as the two continue down the hall. "There's. A. Party. Tonight."

Sam tries to pull himself out of his brother's range, but Dean is almost a head taller than him and quick on his feet. He swats at Dean's fist. "Dude, quit it. What are you talking about, party? Where?"

Dean lets his hands fall, smile still wide on his face. "Don't be a bitch. And where do you think? At Bobby's, doy."

Sam's whole face gives way to sarcastic disbelief. "Yeah? And how are you managing to pull that off?"

"It just so happens that I got a call from Bobby. Rufus called him for backup on a werewolf case about an hour north." Dean flings an arm around Sam's shoulders and throws his hand in a wide arch in front of them. "That leaves you, me, and a whole house just aching to be filled with hot chicks."

Sam wiggles from under his weight. "You saw Dad's note, Dean. No girls."

Dean scoffs. "Dad's never going to know. Neither is Bobby long as you keep your girly little mouth shut." When Sam still looks unconvinced Dean continues, "Come on, Sammy. We got to live a little, don't we? Don't we owe it to ourselves to have a little fun every now and again? You know all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

"I still don't see how you plan on pulling it off."

"You just leave it to old Dean, I've got it covered. All you need to do it speed the word. I want this to be the biggest blowout this town has ever seen. It's going to be legendary, Sammy."

Sam sighs unenthusiastically, but with that hopeful if not slightly overconfident smirk on his brother's face, he can't help but smile a little himself. He shakes his head slowly. "Whatever you say, Dean."

Dean beams, "That's the spirt. This is me here," he says, ducking towards his history class. He walks backwards as he calls, "I'll see you after school. Don't forget, tell everyone you know."

Sam stands in the quickly emptying hallway and looks around. He has no one to tell.


End file.
